


to let you shine

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Prostitution, Sexbots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: “I can’t believe they left you like this…”Mondatta tuts as he circles around his bunk, one hand trailing lightly over the shivering frame currently resting upon it: Zenyatta, freshly relieved of his shift at the brothel and with all the evidence to prove it. His thin, quaking thighs are covered in slickness, the lights in his forehead flickering and the very metal of his being seemingly trembling, vibrating, with the pent-up energy locked inside him.He looks a wreck. Later, Mondatta will wet a soft rag and clean the flakes of dried fluid off his brother’s body. Later he will kiss Zenyatta’s head and cradle him close, and whisper to him how precious he is over the quiet, warm thrum of their bodies.But right now Zenyatta needs a different kind of care.





	to let you shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robotfvckers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/gifts).



“I can’t believe they left you like this…”

Mondatta tuts as he circles around his bunk, one hand trailing lightly over the shivering frame currently resting upon it: Zenyatta, freshly relieved of his shift at the brothel and with all the evidence to prove it. His thin, quaking thighs are covered in slickness, the lights in his forehead flickering and the very metal of his being seemingly trembling, vibrating, with the pent-up energy locked inside him. 

He looks a wreck. Later, Mondatta will wet a soft rag and clean the flakes of dried fluid off his brother’s body. Later he will kiss Zenyatta’s head and cradle him close, and whisper to him how precious he is over the quiet, warm thrum of their bodies.

But right now Zenyatta needs a different kind of care. 

“Brother…” His voice is a weak, strained thing, laced with static over the whirring of the fans that work to cool his overheated frame. _“Please…”_

And how could Mondatta ever tell him no? 

Even like this--so out of his mind with the demands of his coding, with the hunger wired into his core by the humans who keep him enslaved--Mondatta can’t help but feel a rush of affection for him, and leans down to press their foreheads together as his hand finds the wet, hot space between Zenyatta’s legs.

“They just don’t know what they’re doing with you, do they, my star,” he murmurs, fingers light as they settle between Zenyatta’s thighs to stroke over the throbbing, engorged little nub of his clit. Zenyatta’s hips arch up into the touch, chasing after the pleasure that Mondatta knows he’s been denied all day; and he tuts again, soft and sad, as he slips a finger into the slack, hungry hole.

“They just get you all worked up and don’t bother to give you any relief. How barbaric.” Mondatta keeps his voice soft, even though he thinks Zenyatta is far past hearing him; he slides another finger into his brother’s cunt and curls them, transfixed as Zenyatta’s slender body arcs up off the berth with a staticky, strangled-sounding cry. “They’ll never know how pretty you can sing…”

And Zenyatta _sobs_ \--reaches between his legs to grab at Mondatta’s wrist as it rocks into where he aches the most, desperate to keep him going, to reach the peak he’s been denied for so long.

As if Mondatta could ever deny him.

“There you go,” he whispers, intensifying the stretch: adding another finger, then another, until he can piston his hand smoothly into Zenyatta’s dripping cunt and tease his thumb over the glowing clit tucked up at the top of his slit, just to hear him wail. “I know you want it, brother...don’t fight it, sweet thing, let me see you come undone…”

Be it because of the coding that demands he obey, or just his desperation for relief--Mondatta finds himself too enraptured in watching Zenyatta’s body lock up in climax to care, too pleased by the trembles that wrack his slight frame. Zenyatta writhes on the bunk like he’s hooked up to a live wire, light steam pouring from his vents and his lovely voice becoming nothing more than a mix of static and clicks, all higher functions lost to his most basic of pleasures.

Mondatta works him through it, trying to burn the image of his brother so surrendered to bliss into his mind forever; because Zenyatta is always beautiful, but never more so than when he has lost control of himself.

Except for maybe after--when he’s soft and pliant, keening weakly as he tries to sit up on the bunk despite how his limbs tremble. Mondatta helps him with gentle touches to his chest and helm, guiding hands that coax Zenyatta to recline backward against him; and he lays his arms snug around Zenyatta’s trim waist, nuzzles into the cables of his neck with a quiet hum.

They’re so insignificant, in this world--just pretty machines with a job to do, and dozens of masters to please. They have nothing but rags, and no one but each other; but as Mondatta pulls his brother’s quaking frame closer, wraps him up in the safety and comfort of his arms to listen to the living thrum of his body, he thinks that _just might_ be enough.


End file.
